


Basketcases and Basketballs

by stylinourry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Louis has his priorities set on something else, M/M, and it's not going to be an easy target, bball, but a significant slam dunk is waiting to happen, he can kiss his quintessential career goodbye, he'll find out the whole thing is a game plan for disaster, it's going to be rough and violent and masochist-level painful, larry stylinson - Freeform, one direction - Freeform, unless he can sort it all out like the perfectionist idiot he is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:31:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stylinourry/pseuds/stylinourry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's the renowned star of England's court. The other is a universally-acclaimed coach: the youngest in the NBA. When he's forced to accept a trade-in from a particular UK team, certain problems are starting to bounce as fast as the ball itself. Most important rule of play: <i>always</i> keep your head in the game. But for how long?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Basketcases and Basketballs

"Lou? Are you there?"

Louis swivelled around, distracted, and his tattooed arm reached aimlessly for the speakerphone. Bloody hell that she be calling at this inopportune time. As she couldn't obviously see, he was preoccupied in having to finish watching his practice tape...which was, for him, a quite effective coaching method. Every day he would set up a small video lounge conveniently placed beside the large gym, and at indicated times his video cam would start rolling. It caught every possible angle that it could, spanning between each player's movement be it deliberate fouls and perfect underarm arcs or clumsy foot work and ridiculous dribbles by unfocused hands. The task wasn't a piece of cake, but for top NBA coach Louis Tomlinson, the word hard is non-existent.

His rounded eyebrows knit together, concentrated and a bit exhausted as his tired blue eyes follow his team on the flickering carbon film mess of a computer screen.

Louis' ears perked only slightly at a faint screaming sound in his background; consequently, it was screaming that appeared to grow louder. And how on earth could he devote his attention to it? He was _busy_ -

"LOUIS! I can't do this anymore!"

His gaze never left player five, who now had possession of the ball. It was being handled rather expertly within the lad's hands and his arms managed to snitch the ball from blonde irishman player two, broad shoulders body checking his behind as he hit a 2-pointer with an admirable nimbleness that was comparable to a deer's. Louis smirked. This young man mastered in three seconds what the rest of the team could in approximately an hour, and that fact alone satisfied him.

"You missed our two dates and I figure you're just bloody ignoring me-"

Louis tuned her out, consulting his roster list attached to the clipboard beside his black matte desk flanked with 18 karat silver, one piece of furniture that CEO Paul lent to him; it was offered in exchange for his "illuminating" contributions to basketball and the sports industry in general - a coveted gift, but Louis refused to accept the 15-grand desk at first. He insisted that he was just doing what he loved. Ambition, determination and perseverance were his main principles (principles essential to a perfect game plan, much more so the perfect individual), and he couldn't have asked for more than what he believed he solely deserved. Louis trailed an index finger down twenty three names, eyes brightening considerably at player number five: Liam James Payne.

You see, Louis' team was a unique one. Disproportionate player sizes broke basketball's idealist concept of towering heights and it was something inexplicable. The NBA turned their heads to the issue because of this, noticing how Louis made the difference _work_ : fellow Brit and promising MVP Liam was six feet two, and that irishman Niall Horan was a mere six feet, while Josh Devine, another Brit, stood at five feet nine.

According to Paul, no one has ever seen the likes of such a magnitude. It should have been a big problem, but due to Louis' unparalleled coaching craft, the Orlando Bulls created a near spotless regular season record so far. As a result this new team roster secured a benchmark space in the association. They were still no doubt new. Play-off season was also looming dangerously on the horizon and Louis already had a detail plan prepared for whatever tribulations the team was bound to encounter.

He leaned backwards in his chair, running a clammy hand over his face. Although Louis' been the Orlando Bull's head coach for almost a year, he remained relatively new to the sports world. In retrospect, some stroke of luck landed him name after name on famous sport outlets such as ESPN, Sports Illustrated (strictly by mention, which excluded the scant women), NBA Today, The Sporting News...an array of them beyond his wildest dreams over such a short time period.

It was all surreal, and Louis often needed a breather that didn't last less than three days. Other major teams like the Dallas Mavericks were also after him, desperate to snag whom the association deemed as "Coach Exemplify" for themselves; he thought of himself however as nothing close to exemplary. The name was misleading. Instead, Louis allowed people to be his conscientious judge despite it being seen as self-degradation. To him, it meant he didn't have to worry in case narcissists he really couldn't care less about confronted him.

Sports consists of dogs eating dogs. Then again the industry was, beneath the surface, more brutal than one could possibly imagine. What the world saw on their TV screens was merely a fraction of the real deal bubbling down below. Signing your life away to a bunch of upper-class businessmen was a common occurrence. Similar to the dirty antics of the music industry, contracts either made your name or broke your reputation, regardless of the talent and the athletic prowess you exhibited out on the field.

Associate yourself with a scandal and you may very well be dribbling your way out of the NBA, your LeBron emulation notwithstanding. Salaries are cut by an irking landslide, then the media spins you into an empty replica: a fallen player who was too involved in the whirlwind fast life of sports as soon as the bucks accumulated and worldwide acknowledgement sprouted; your drive to excel and live for sports becomes "a lie - a false pretense of ambition."

Louis exhaled, pausing the practice video.

"We're done, Louis! I'm deleting your number from my phone and don't ever fucking call me again! You asshole bastard shit!"

_Nice, colourful choice of words_.

He sat there, idle and unfazed at the prolonged beep of the speakerphone, and he sank down further into the cushioned chair, deflated. Eleanor, on the other hand, was never a girlfriend he dually committed to anyway.

Louis just didn't have the _time_. Unfortunately for her, his priorities lay elsewhere, and it was basketball. Eleanor was an aside and he never told her that. Louis supposed it's mainly his own fault for failing to end the relationship before it was too late. Clearly, he kept her dangling this long for sexual gratification, and Eleanor willingly gave herself to Louis whenever he needed wherever he wanted once the fucking testosterone overwhelmed his veins. It kept him from having to scurry off to the loo for a quick wank; the number of times he had to go was increasing by the millisecond.

He groaned weakly, dropping his head upon the desk. Louis couldn't at all risk his hard-earned title as coach. A gay coach, in the sports industry, was as awful a threat as a gay player, open or closeted, and as much as this frustrated him he was aware of the potential backlash. Homosexuality was a prohibition equivalent to a death sentence in sports. On some days Louis wished his circumstances were different. On other days he was desperate for release, freedom, _truth_.

He was trapped inside a cage. He was the bird and the iron cage bars were basketball's diamonds...his dreams, accomplishments and entitlements mixed together in an eclectic, hopeless arrangement that made him feel miserable.

But don't get him wrong! His energy and strength and mental abilities lived for basketball; he _breathed_ for the sport, the electric atmosphere he experiences while shouting his voice hoarse in the hopes that his team win still fresh in his mind. ("DAMN HUSTLE, HORAN! DEFENSE AT SIX O'CLOCK! MOVE YOUR SLUGGY ARSES!") He just severely despised how things had to be done around here.

Well...to come out on top involved sacrifice. And if Louis wanted to stay on the top, he better be playing by the rules.

To be honest, basketball actually lacked genuine "rules". It was all blackmail and Godfather-like war in which Paul was Robert De Niro, and if you happened to emerge on his bad side you were guaranteed a physically and mentally disturbing threat, but _only_ limited to a threat. Paul Higgins was a good guy, and Louis knew him well. You simply needed to be careful and not tread on eggshells.

~

The phone rang hours later, Louis having dozed off in the middle of his third practice tape of the day. He was deprived of sleep, and it wasn't odd for his players to find him napping on a makeshift cushion along the dusty couch, ragged snores and trickles of saliva escaping his mouth. It was during times like this that Louis' dreams contained his sprawling flat back in London - its every nook and cranny, silken mattresses, kingly duvets and majestic cream walls-

Louis bolted awake, falling off the cushion with a delayed yelp of pain. "Shit fuck," he muttered, blindly stumbling to his feet. Who the hell was calling him _this_ time?

Stubborn as a five-year old, Louis considered not picking up, cranky and moody and snappy towards anyone who so much as spoke a word to him. He looked, absent-minded, at the transparent glass windows of his office, the incessant rings slowly ebbing away as his weary mind wandered.

"Louis? Louis Tomlinson? Is this the right number?" Static intermingled with the voice, an audible trace of a British accent spilling through the crackles.

What?

Letting out a defeated sigh, Louis dragged himself over to the Samsung answering machine, flicking a stray piece of his brown fringe away from his stress-tinged face. He probably looked awful at the moment and he didn't need a stupid mirror to remind him. 

"Hello? Yes, this is he." Louis attempted to sound enthusiastic - his usual temperament. In fact, Louis radiated charisma and sass and unspeakable levels of optimism. He was a _loud_ chatty social magnet and as approachable as President Obama. Louis never allowed his negativity to take charge of his emotions on bad days although he desperately needed to control his anger. Rub Louis the wrong way (metaphorically and literally) and you'd be facing a potty-mouthed prick.

"Mr. Tomlinson - this is Mr. Cowell of the Manchester Brighouses-"

_Simon Cowell?! Holy fuck. The guy's one of the UK's noted head coaches in basketball and I'm not even worthy-_

Louis struggled to breathe, having a difficult time acknowledging who he was talking to. Again: fucking surreal. "U-uh, Mr. Cowell! It's an absolute pleasure!" He bit his lip rather hard, soon tasting crimson blood. Louis received his share of A-lister calls since he started, but he still wasn't used to calls of this high a significance, such as one from, oh, _Simon Cowell of the fucking Manchester Brighouses._ The lot was the UK's breakthrough basketball team - which, according to TIME, was a "remarkable feat that strongly goes against the tradition of football as England's national sport." They were _up there_! How was he supposed to _deal_? 

"Right back at you, Louis. You've had a spectacular year I presume, Coach Exemplify."

_Breathe in. Breathe out. In and out._

"Thank you so much, Sir! I-I'm-"

"Say, are you by any chance interested in negotiating a trade-in with me?"

Louis' eyes widened, inquiring and _very_ surprised; he quelled his excitement, resisting the urge to scream and yell inside the office, because this was a TRADE-IN with the Manchester Brighouses they were conversing about!

However, trade-ins were to be decided with total precision and conviction. He couldn't say yes on the spot just yet. Trading a player always meant trading a possible advantage, and it was a tedious process.

His entire body shuddered. Was his team up to it? Was _he_?

***

Hell yes he was. After a brief period of contemplation he presumes that replacing the McGarish bloke would be harmless. Not to be rude, but Louis had to. He's slow and Frankensteinly and if anything this trade-in with prestigious UK Manchester Brighouses will do him much good. McGarish'd feel privileged.

McGarish it is.

"I'm interested! Thought of one of my lads who could need conditioning and he'll most likely take this opportunity." He hoped Cowell heard the smile in his voice. He truly was happy. Beyond the fucking moon.

Simon laughed. "That's great! Give me his name, roster line-up and contact information and this trade-in should be effective on Saturday. I'll call Paul as well."

Louis shook his head, focused on their exchange. He wiped his damp forehead and clutched at the waistline of his skinny black trousers because _brilliant, Louis._

There's just one final question he had to ask Cowell.

"How about McGarish's replacement, sir? Have anybody in mind?"

"Oh, I've had a definite choice in mind for a while. He's the top-notch second MVP in the roster: ingenious, swift and alert. He'll exceed your expectations, Tomlinson. I promised him a place in your ranks and he's immensely ecstatic to be under the helm of Coach Exemplify."

Louis' jaw dropped agape.

"MVP?!" Simon replied with a satisfied cluck of his tongue, and _holy damn_ , this is huge.

"Not to mention he's one of England's best. No doubt a young player who's gained universal acclaim!"

Louis' palms trembled, anticipative. Simon shifted his paperwork around, crinkley noises resonating through the speaker pressed to his ear. His hands were getting slick, and even though it's quite revolting - being the clean freak that he is - he doesn't complain at a time like this.

"Ah, here it is. Harry Edward Styles, point-guard offence, roster #17, nineteen years old. Six feet three with incredible form, stamina and endurance. MVP of 2011, 2012 and of the half-time National Basketball Tournament in York. He's also on the waiting list for an Olympic entry, and broke the record for the youngest player ever to achieve 89 3-pointers over the course of a year, regular and play-off seasons included. In conclusion, what's your verdict?"

Louis' mind is iron-hot right now, and _fuck_ , he thinks he's going to sob.

"I...I-"

Simon chuckles, amused. "I take that as a yes. Expect to see him four days from now. I'd like Harry to be acquainted with you and your team as soon as possible."

Louis doesn't know what else to say, dumbstruck speechless. "Thank you, Mr. Cowell! Thank you so much!"

"Uh, Coach? Are you _crying?_ "

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so happy I got to start this! I do happen to be a big sports fan and I thought... _hey_ , why not incorporate Sports!Larry into a plot? Thank you so much for the comments and kudos and things! Might write a sequel for this shit in the foreseeable future too :')


End file.
